eyond  the 

Gates  of 

-Care^c 


HERBERT  BASHFORD 


LIBRARY 

OF    THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 
ClMS  iM«| 


Beyond  the  Gates  of  Care 


HERBERT   BASHFORD 


Author  of  "  Songs  From  Puget  Sea,"  "Nature  Stories  of  the 
Northwest,"  "The  Wolves  of  the  Sea,"  etc. 


San  Francisco 

thf,  whitaksr  &  ray  company 

(incorporated) 

1901 


GENERAL 

i 


Copyright,  1901 

BY 
HERBERT  BASHFORD. 


NOTE. 

For  the  kind  permission  to  reprint  many  of  the 
poems  contained  in  this  volume  I  am  indebted  to 
the  following  publications:  The  Independent, 
Critic,  Frank  Leslie's  Weekly,  Chautauquan,  Over- 
land, Munsey,  Godey  Co.,  Pilot,  Arena,  Peterson, 
Woman's      Home      Companion,      and      Midland 

Monthly. 

H.  B. 


TO  ALICE. 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/beyondgatesofcarOObashrich 


CONTENTS. 

Sunrise 9 

The  Sea  of  the  North 10 

The  Arid  Lands 12 

On  the  Cliff 1 

An  Old  Garden 

Midwinter  in  the  Northwest   .   .  .    .  . 

The  Cougar il 

After  the  Snowstorm 17 

Autumn  Days 18 

A  Western  Sunset 20 

The  Poet .   .  .   .   ,  ' 22 

Dead  Man's  Island  :  Puget  Sound 2*?) 

Mid-summer 24 

To  a  Bee 26 

Storm  in  the  Forest .27 

The  Seagull  ...       29 

Summer  Hours 30 

Evening  on  the  Ranch 32 

In  May 

The  Song  of  the  Lark . 

November 35 

The  Deserted  Cabin ($h 

The  Blue  Heron 37 

Where  Solitude  Abides 38 

December .39 

Copalis « 40 

In  January 43 

The  Wreck  of  the  Ferndale 44 

Autumn  Song 48 

The  Woods  of  the  West 49 

The  Dawn  of  Christmas  Day 50 

Long  Ago 52 

Morning ^5) 

The  Derelict 56 

Love  and  I 5S 


SONNETS. 

One  Autumn  Night 61 

By  the  Pacific 62 

A  Picture 63 

The  Cyclone 64 

Night  in  Camp 6} 

Morning  in  Camp 

Alone  upon  the  Mountain  Side 67 

Dawn  on  Puget  Sound 68 

Noon  on  Puget  Sound 69 

Evening  on  Puget  Sound 70 

The  Pioneer 71 

To  the  Sea fifi 

If  She  Should  Die f/ 

Cuba,  1897 74 

Since  She  is  Gone 75 

The  Silent  Woods 76 

The  Fall  of  the  Fir 77 

The  Fishermen:  Puget  Sound .    .  78 

June ;n 

Haunted |8oj 

On  the  Marsh gf' 

QUATRAINS. 

Mt.  Rainier 85 

Custer 86 

Moonrise *%%& 

A  Sea  Picture 88 

Creeds 89 

The  West  Shore 90 

The  Pacific 91 

Butterflies      92 

The  Thrush 93 

Along  Shore 94 

In  a  Western  Forest 95 

At  a  Child's  Grave 96 

The  Birth  of  the  Red  Rose 97 

In  the  Garden 98 

October 99 

Sunset .100 


Sunrise* 

The  sun  climbs  up  with  burning  feet, 
The  sea  is  now  a  tossing  sheet 
Fire-fringed  where  shore  and  waters  meet. 

Upon  the  crest  of  yonder  height 
Each  tall,  dead  cedar,  slim  and  white, 
Is  but  a  lifted  lance  of  light. 


The  Sea  of  the  North 

Along  the  lone  shore  of  the  northland  the  wild  waves 
incessantly  thunder; 
White-helmeted  warriors  are  they  that  wrestle  and 
roar  on  the  reef; 
So  full  of  deep  woe  is  the  voice  of  these  turbulent 
waters,  I  wonder 
If  this  mourning  sea  of  the  North  is  not  the  gray 
mother  of  Grief. 

The  bold,  frowning  headlands  loom  dim  through  the 
spray  of  the  seas  that  are  dashing 
High  over  the  foam-covered  ledges  and  brown,  rug- 
ged rocks  of  the  coast; 
I  see  the  plumed  legions  ride  landward  and  list  to  their 
terrible  crashing, 
Their  furious  tumult  and  clamor — the  wail  of  a  down- 
trodden host! 

At  the  base  of  the  beetling  cliff  the  caverns  are  moan- 
ing and  sobbing, 
And  the  great  flakes  of  froth  from  the  waves  are  as 
white  as  the  gay  gull  that  flees 
Where  the  far-reaching  billows  are  wildest;  and,  ah, 
how  my  pulses  are  throbbing 
As  I  view  the  strong  sweep  of  the  surf  and  the  mar- 
velous shatter  of  seas! 

10 


But  the  surges  that  fawn  at  my  feet  have  a  sound  like  a 
serpent's  fierce  hisses, 
And  though  the  pale  lips  of  the  breakers  are  pressed 
to  the  stone  as  they  climb 
Toward  the  crest  of  the  crag,  yet  I  know,  in  spite  of 
your  passionate  kisses, 
Your  heart  ever  hungers  for  horror,  oh,  hoar-locked 
companion  of  Time! 


11 


The  Arid  Lands* 

9 

These  lands  are  clothed  in  burning  weather, 
These  parched  lands  pant  for  God's  cool  rain; 

I  look  away  where  strike  together 
The  burnished  sky  and  barren  plain. 

I  look  away;  no  green  thing  gladdens 
My  weary  eye — no  flower,  no  tree, 

Naught  save  the  earth,  the  sage-brush  saddens 
The  scorched,  gray  earth  that  sickens  me. 

Oh,  for  the  pines,  where  the  sweet  wind  revels! 

The  ringing  laugh  of  the  crystal  creek! 
Alas,  gaunt  Hunger  haunts  these  levels, 

And  Thirst  goes  wandering  wan  and  weak. 

No  shadow  falls  where  swiftly  passes 

The  gray  coyote's  noiseless  feet, 
No  song  of  bird,  no  hint  of  grasses — 

The  home  of  Silence  and  of  Heat! 


12 


On  the  Cliff, 


Pushes  the  bold,  strong  tide  high  over  the  sheer,  rough 
ledges, 
Stand  the  brave  seas  on  the  rocks  all  red  with  the 
sun's  parting  glow, 
Cold,  line  spray  in  the  air  fast  dimming  the  crag's  sharp 
edges, 
Lifting  like  smoke  from  the  boom  of  the  great  wave- 
cannon  below. 

Rises  the  calm,   fair  moon,   white  ruler  of  turbulent 
ocean, 
Bends  her  fair  form  in  response  to  that  far-sounding 
thunder  of  praise, 
Steps,    silver-sandaled,    where    seas    writhe    in    wildest 
commotion, 
Smiles  at  the  foam-shrouded  waters  that  follow  her 
down  through  the  days. 

Safe  are  we  here  on  the  cliff;  but  ah!  that  mad  shatter 
and  crashing 
Brings  the  chill  tremor  of  fear,  the  short,  hard,  shud- 
dering breath, 
Look,   oh,   God,  look  beneath   us!     How  fearful  the 
tumult,  the  lashing — 
Lashing  of  crazed,  hungry  billows  that  clamor  for 
terror  and  death. 


13 


An  Old  Garden* 

The  old,  gray  fence  is  wrapped  in  vines 
While  here  and  there  a  creeper  trails 

A  burning  lash  that  twists  and  twines 
Around  the  ancient,  rotting  rails. 

A  slender  streamlet  shivers  through 
The  tall,  strong  grass  and  glides  along 

To  seaward  with  such  silence  you 
Hear  but  the  echo  of  a  song. 

A  few  broad  sunflowers  flaming  bright 
Lift  from  the  brambles'  woven  darks; 

Amid  sweet  clover,  pink  and  white, 
A  poppy  flings  its  glowing  sparks. 

Beyond  lean  lonely  alder  trees, 
Each  slim  trunk  mottled  leopard- wise; 

In  deep  flower  bells  crawl  bandit  bees 
With  belts  of  gold  about  their  thighs. 


14 


v  Midwinter  in  the  Northwest* 

Through  all  the  dreary  days  the  cold  rains  pour, 
And  winter's  chilling  gusts  make  sullen  moan; 

Their  outstretched  arms  the  tall  pines  raise  and  lower 
As  if  to  silence  that  deep  monotone. 

No  song  of  bird  now  thrills  the  solemn  wood, 
And  save  the  wailing  wind  there  is  no  sound; 

Where  once  the  lilies  in  white  beauty  stood 
The  rotting  leaves  have  robed  the  sodden  ground. 

The  slender  cedars  standing  on  the  height 
Seem  bony  fingers  pointing  to  the  sky; 

The  maple  trees,  ah,  what  a  woeful  sight — 
Mere  skeletons  that  ever  strive  to  die! 

I  look  in  vain  for  glowing  sun  at  morn, 
At  evening  watch  the  dark  blot  out  the  day 

And  greet,  mayhap,  the  old  moon,  pale  and  worn, — 
A  groping  ghost  half  seen  through  folds  of  gray. 


The  Cougar* 

w 

He  lies  in  wait  where  woods  are  dim 
Low-crouched  upon  a  mossy  limb, 
While  each  leaf  shakes  at  sight  of  him. 

The  graceful  fawn  and  timid  doe 
Tread  down  the  clover  blooms  below; 
Two  yellow  flames  his  great  eyes  grow. 

Ah,  meek,  gray  doe  and  spotted  fawn 

You  little  know  as  you  stroll  on 

That  he  lurks  near  with  daggers  drawn! 

And,  oh,  how  sudden  is  the  spring, 
How  keen  the  claws  that  earthward  bring 
The  brown-eyed  mother  shuddering! 

A  crimson  pool  upon  the  ground, 
A  low  death  wail;  the  mournful  sound 
Of  weeping  from  the  firs  around. 

A  gory  feast,  with  fangs  that  tear; 
A  cluster  of  tall  ferns,  from  where 
A  lone  fawn  looks  in  mute  despair. 


After  the  Snowstorm. 


Each  tall  pine  stands  in  white  array, 

A  keen  north  wind  goes  whistling  by, 
The  clouds  take  wing  and  sail  away 

Like  huge  gray  birds  across  the  sky, 
While  through  the  meadow,  bleak  and  cold, 

A  stream's  black  windings  I  can  trace, 
And  o'er  yon  mountain,  jagged,  bold, 

The  full  moon  shows  a  frosty  face. 


17 


•  Autumn  Days* 

On  autumn  days  in  woodland  ways 

I  lie  beneath  the  trees 
And  watch  the  clouds  in  snowy  shrouds 

Drift  through  the  upper  seas. 
The  leaves  of  brown  come  floating  down, 

The  boughs  are  blown  apart; 
Above  my  head  are  blots  of  red 

From  Summer's  broken  heart. 

Around  about  the  streamlets  shout, 

A  chipmunk  whisks  his  tail 
And  up  the  pines  makes  striped  lines 

Or  darts  along  a  rail, 
While  soft  and  clear  I  sometimes  hear 

A  wild  bee's  dreamy  hum, 
The  liquid  notes  from  trembling  throats 

And  yellowhammer's  drum. 

The  maple  old  is  crowned  with  gold; 

A  torch  burns  just  behind; 
Like  finger  tips  upon  my  lips 

The  touch  of  balmy  wind 
That  wanders  free  o'er  gem-set  sea 

And  sweetest  perfume  brings; 
I  catch  below  a  flash  of  snow — 

A  seagull's  gleaming  wings. 


18 


From  out  the  deep  the  salmon  leap 

All  clad  in  silver  mail, 
And  far  away  across  the  bay 

I  see  a  coming  sail. 
And,  oh!  how  bright  that  wing  of  white 

Which  wafts  my  love  to  me; 
Ah,  dearest  one,  through  miles  of  sun 

I  throw  a  kiss  to  thee! 


19 


A  "Western  Sunset* 


We  stood  upon  the  clovered  hill 

And  watched  the  splendid  sun  go  down 

Behind  the  old,  deserted  mill 
And  scattered  cabins,  small  and  brown. 

Some  trees  with  branches  interlaced 
Were  clustered  near  a  shadowed  pond; 

Each  slender  twig  was  clearly  traced 
Against  the  gorgeous  glow  beyond. 

A  purple  streamer  in  the  west 
Was  stretched  above  a  bank  of  snow, 

While  saffron  clouds  had  sunk  to  rest 
In  spreading  orange  fields  below. 

Two  fleecy  shapes  did  twist  and  twine 
Until  they  formed  a  giant  cup, 

Which  plunged  into  a  sea  of  wine 
And,  bubbling  o'er,  was  lifted  up. 


20 


She  pointed  to  a  scarlet  bar — 
My  sweet  companion,  young  and  fair, 

And  wondered  if  the  evening  star 
Were  frightened  as  it  trembled  there. 

We  lingered  long;  a  cooling  breeze 
Came  laden  with  the  breath  of  musk; 

We  heard  low  pipings  in  the  trees, 
And  clear  notes  dropping  through  the  dusk. 


21 


The  Poet. 

The  poet  sang  his  joyous  songs; 

Men  heard  them  not;  no  word  of  praise 
Ere  reached  the  singer's  ear;   no  hand 

Ere  smoothed  the  rugged  ways. 

Too  soon  his  young  soul  sought  the  stars; 

From  out  Time's  palm  the  ages  rolled, 
And,  lo,  for  each  rose  on  his  grave 

Men  yield  their  treasured  gold! 


22 


Dead  Man's  Island:  Puget  Sound* 


A  dot  of  land,  a  rugged  shore, 
A  flock  of  birds,  a  crooked  tree, 

Huge  piles  of  rock  where  often  roar 
The  deep-voiced  breakers  of  the  sea. 

A  ledge  of  sandstone  gray  and  rough, 
A  winding  trail,  some  weeds,  and  then 

Two  mounds  of  earth  upon  a  bluff — 
Neglected  graves  of  shipwrecked  men. 

A  stormy  night,  a  vessel  lost, 

White-crested  waves  that  roll  and  reach, 
Two  helpless  creatures  wildly  tossed, 

Two  sailors  dying  on  the  beach. 

And  ever  since  a  curse,  a  prayer, 
Unearthly  moans  and  fiendish  cries, 

Two  figures  groping  here  and  there, 
Two  faces  pale  with  hollow  eyes. 


•  Mid-summer* 

<$ 

From  crowded  street  and  ceaseless  din 
To  summer's  leafy  woods  we  turn, 

And  hear  the  brown  thrush  trill  within 
The  twilight  deeps  of  tousled  fern. 

Between  dark  shores  of  pine  and  fir 

The  merry  river  leaps  along — 
A  clear-voiced  poet — wanderer 

From  out  the  mystic  realm  of  Song. 

The  air  hangs  thick  with  rich  perfumes, 
Warm  woodland  odors,  scents  of  musk; 

Tall  lilies  drowse  in  bramble  glooms 
And  glimmer  through  a  dream  of  dusk. 

Where  one  frail  branch  slow  sways  and  swings 
From  shade  to  sunshine  can  be  seen 

A  scolding  jay's  bright,  burnished  wings — 
Two  sapphire  flames  amid  the  green. 


24 


We  catch  a  glimpse  from  where  we  lie 
Of  nesting  bird  above,  and  higher 

Of  lilting,  yellow  butterfly 
That  flickers  like  a  dying  fire. 

Oh,  summer  hours  how  swift  thy  flight! 

Oh,  love  how  dear  those  words  of  thine! 
Two  fond  eyes  beam  with  misty  light; 

Two  rose-red  lips  are  pressed  to  mine. 


25 


*To  a  Bee* 

Belted  thief  with  amber  wing 
Rifling,  while  you  softly  sing, 
Every  rose  within  the  glade; 
Robbing,  while  you  serenade 
Each   warm-hearted,   modest   flower, 
Blushing  through  the  summer  hour; 
Blushing  at  your  kisses  bold, 
Bandit,  in  your  suit  of  gold; 
Flattered  that  you  seem  so  true, 
That  a  knight  has  come  to  woo — 
Ah,  a  gay  deceiver,  you! 


V 


Storm  in  the  Forest* 


A  low,  deep  roar  like  that  of  far-off  seas 
When  up  sheer  cliffs  they  strive  to  clamber  higher. 

Dark  clouds  fast  driven  over  gloom-hung  trees 
And  maddened  by  the  lightning's  lash  of  fire. 

A  rush  of  wind,  loud  breathing  of  the  pines, 
A  shrieking  bird  in  wild,  bewildered  flight, 

Big  drops  of  rain  that  fall  in  slanting  lines- 
Long  lances  gleaming  from  a  wall  of  night. 

A  thousand  twigs  torn  from  the  maple's  hold, 
The  fir  down-beaten,  woeful  cries  of  grief, 

Wide-spreading  maples  robbed  of  all  their  gold 
With  wrenched  limbs  reaching  for  the  last  red  leaf. 

The  thunder's  jar  amid  unearthly  moans, 
A  quick,  sharp  crash  above  the  raging  blast, 

Shrill  pipings  mingled  with  appalling  groans 
And  black,  uncertain  shapes  blown  swiftly  past. 


27 


A  swollen  streamlet  tearing  madly  by, 

The  broken   boughs  in  dire  confusion  hurled, 

A  riven  forest  and  a  clearing  sky, 

The  round  sun  flaming  on  a  flooded  world! 


28 


The  SeagulL 


A  ceaseless  rover,  waif  of  many  climes, 

He  scorns  the  tempest,  greets  the  lifting  sun 

With  wings  that  fling  the  light  and  sinks  at  times 
To  ride  in  triumph  where  the  tall  waves  run. 

The  rocks  tide-worn,  the  high  cliff  brown  and  bare 
And  crags  of  bleak,  strange  shores  he  rests  upon; 

He  floats  above,  a  moment  hangs  in  air 

Clean-etched  against  the  broad,  gold  breast  of  dawn. 

When  wild,  strong  billows  reach  in  fiercest  might 
To  clutch  the  gems  that  fire  the  midnight  sky, 

When  anger  turns  the  ocean's  face  to  white, 
Then  sounds  afar  his  shrill,  exultant  cry. 

Bold  haunter  of  the  deep!     Of  thy  swift  flights 
What  of  them  all  brings  keenest  joy  to  thee, 

To  drive  sharp  pinions  through  storm-beaten  nights 
Or  shriek  amid  black  hollows  of  the  sea? 


29 


Summer  Hours* 

m 

Sweet,  summer  hours  on  mild  Pacific's  shore, 
Long,  golden  hours  beside  the  western  sea, 

Ah,  would  that  I  again  might  live  them  o'er; 
Those  days  of  ecstasy! 

I  hear  once  more  the  gull's  triumphant  screech, 
And  see  our  white  tents  glimmer  in  the  sun, 

And  far  beyond  the  gleaming  curve  of  beach 
Where  foam-flecked  breakers  run. 

I  feel  the  pressure  of  her  tender  hand, 
I  drink  the  beauty  of  her  hazel  eyes 

As  we  together  tread  the  hard,  brown  sand 
Beneath  deep,  sapphire  skies. 

To  her  the  crowding  billows  rise  and  bow 
And  passion-fraught  their  pulses  wildly  beat, 

Like  frenzied  lovers  they  advance  and  now 
Fall  prostrate  at  her  feet. 


30 


The  creeping  tide  comes  in  across  the  reef, 
To  landward  drifts  the  fine,  uprising  spray, 

The  cliff's  one  pine  tree,  moaning  as  with  grief, 
Is  wrapped  in  shrouds  of  gray. 

We  breathe  the  fragrance  of  the  evening  air, 
And  watch  the  red  sun  sinking  to  his  rest 

The  while  the  startled  waters  flame  and  flare 
Against  the  glowing  west. 

We  sit  within  the  blazing  driftwood's  glow 
And  listen  to  gray  ocean's  mournful  tone, 

We  gaze  enchanted  as  the  surges  throw 
White  fire  on  crag  and  stone. 

Ne'er  will  my  memory  lose  those  haunting  seas, 
That  wave-born  music  crashingthrough  the  night, 

The  long-lashed  stars,  Pacific's  balmy  breeze, 
Nor  breaker's  wall  of  light! 


Evening  on  the  Ranch* 


The  sunshine  gilds  the  moss-robed  roofs 
And  glares  upon  the  window  panes; 

By  twos  and  threes  the  lazy  herd 
Strolls  down  the  winding,  dusty  lanes. 

The  flushed  sun  sinks;   the  gold-blurred  west 
Shows  dimly  through  the  maple  boughs; 

The  stars  flame  out;    within  their  stalls 
The  wearied  oxen  dream  and  drowse. 

Like  some  huge  ship  with  hull  afire 
The  crescent  moon  in  vast,  wild  seas 

Of  somber  pine  slow  settles  down 
And  burns  the  black  tops  of  the  trees. 

A  sudden  silence,  deep,  profound, 

Steals  through  the  wan,  uncertain  light, 

And  now  one  lone  frog's  flageolet 
Rings  clear  across  the  falling  night. 


32 


In  May* 


The  lavish  sun  sifts  all  his  gold 

Upon  the  hills  to-day; 
The  snowy  lilies  star  the  dusk 

In  every  woodland  way; 
The  pilgrim  breakers  on  the  shore 

Are  kneeling  now  to  pray. 

The  robin's  flute  rings  sweet  and  strong 

From  out  the  maple  tree; 
The  gray  grouse  seeks  the  cedar's  shade 

And  beats  his  drum  for  me; 
The  joyous  meadow-lark  flings  down 

A  haunting  melody. 

The  dog-wood  blooms  are  round  and  white 

Each  like  a  glowing  moon; 
The  west  wind  strikes  the  great  pine-harps 

And  finds  them  all  in  tune; 
A  bluebird  flashes  by  whose  wings 

Have  brushed  the  skies  of  June. 


The  Song  of  the  Lark* 


The  towering  fir  is  bathed  in  dew, 

And  countless  gems  are  clinging  there; 
A  joyous  lark  amid  the  blue 

Sends  rippling  music  down  the  air, 
And  when  on  boughs  that  droop  apart 

Each  bead  of  crystal  pulses  bright 
His  song  has  touched  the  dewdrop's  heart 

And  made  it  quiver  with  delight. 


34 


November* 


The  chill  wind  blows  across  the  hills, 
Dead  leaves  are  whirling  down, 

The  earth  now  wears  a  rustling  robe 
Of  crimson  and  of  brown. 

Broad  maples  wave  their  naked  arms 
Like  phantoms  to  and  fro, 

The  sky  looks  gray — I  almost  see 
December's  coming  snow. 


The  Deserted  Cabin* 


Tall  thistles  grow  about  the  door, 
And  up  and  down  the  mouldy  wall, 
Through  rotten  wood,  black  spiders  crawl; 
Across  its  roof  the  chipmunks  run, 
The  chinks  let  in  the  dying  sun 
Who  lays  his  red  swords  on  the  floor; 
But  hark!     A  dismal  autumn  blast 
Sweeps  up  the  gulch  and  'round  ap->st 
The  cabin, — now  a  sudden  moan 
Within  the  chimney's  mouth  of  stone, 
While  on  the  hearth  the  blackened  brands 
Are  touched,  are  moved  by  unseen  hands. 


The  Blue  Heron* 


Of  homely  form  and  solemn  mien, 
With  dagger  beak  and  legs  so  slim 

One  thinks  of  him  as  visions  seen 
In  olden  dreams,  now  vague  and  dim. 

With  lifted  head  and  searching  eye, 
In  uniform  of  blue  and  gray, 

He  watches  from  the  tree  top  high — 
The  sentinel  of  cove  and  bay. 

And  oft  as  twilight  blurs  the  sea 
I  mark  his  flight  along  the  shore, 

A  strange  shape  winging  cautiously, 
A  fleeting  shadow — nothing  more. 


37 


Where  Solitude  Abides* 


Alone  it  stands  beside  the  western  sea; 
The  hands  of  Time  have  laid  a  robe  of  green 
Upon  its  roof;    in  each  deserted  room 
The  gathered  mould  of  many  years  is  seen, 
And  spiders,  black  and  hairy,  weave  and  weave 
Round,  wondrous  webs  like  magic  nets  of  light; 
Within  the  walls  and  o'er  the  sounding  floors 
The  shy  mice  scurry  in  the  silent  night, 
And  dart  across  those  wan  and  wavering  lines 
The  moon  pours  through  the  window's  wreath  of 
vines. 

Deserted  is  the  place;    the  orchard  trees 
Neglected;    close  against  the  creaking  door 
Dry  weeds  are 'clustered,  and  the  passing  gust 
Snow  flakes  of  drifting  thistle-down;    no  more 
Bright  roses  bloom  along  the  garden  path 
Nor  lift  their  burning  petals  to  the  sun; 
The  straggling,  scarlet  briars  have  overgrown 
The  narrow  way;    the  dingy  gate  no  one 
Now  enters;    in  deep  grass  the  slim  stream  hides 
And  speaks  no  word  where  Solitude  abides. 


December* 


Heaps  of  leaves  on  the  wet  earth  lying, 
Dead  ferns  robing  the  rocky  hill, 

Fallow  field  and  tall  fir  sighing, 
Barren  boughs  that  are  never  still. 

Flocks  of  crows  in  the  woodland  cawing, 
Wind-wound  grass  where  the  creek  goes  by, 

Over  the  waters  the  wild  ducks  drawing 
Long  black  lines  on  the  leaden  sky. 

Pale  seas  sobbing  on  ragged  reaches, — 
Sorrowful  mourners  bowed  in  prayer — 

Wide-winged  gulls  with  sharp,  shrill  screeches 
Piercing  like  poniards  the  misty  air. 

Bleak,  chill  night  and  drear  rain  falling, 

Cheerless  morn  all  clad  in  gray, 
Only  the  weary  south  wind  calling, 

Only  the  loon  on  the  lonely  bay. 


Copalis* 


High  above  the  strong  Pacific  rising  solemnly  and 
lone 

Looms  the  rugged  rock,  Copalis,  like  a  mountain 
built  of  stone. 

Break  the  heavy  waves  against  it,  roaring  through 
its  caverns  wide, 

Caverns  worn  by  maddened  waters  and  the  moon- 
enchanted  tide. 

All  around  are  curling  breakers,  sifting  spray  and 
flying  foam, 

Where  the  slim  sea  otter  gambols  and  the  gray  gull 
has  a  home. 

All  around  is  fierce  commotion,  pale  forms  reach- 
ing toward  the  skies, 

Sounds  of  awful  cannonading,  haunting  moans  and 
battle  cries. 

Clinging  to  its  craggy  summit,  fastened  down  with 
massive  chains, 

Bathed  in  Summer's  yellow  sunshine,  drenched  in 
Winter's  driving  rains, 


40 


Rests  a  low,  quaint  hut,  the  dwelling  of  the  brave 

Copalis  Jim, 
Rests  the  hut  whose  door  is  opened — opened  never 

save  by  him. 
From  this  airy  habitation  keen  black  eyes  peer  on 

the  seas, 
Raven  locks  are  tossed  and  tangled  in  the  sighing 

ocean  breeze. 
Night  and   morn   he  scans  the  billows  marching 

grandly  far  below, 
Night  and  morn  he  sees  them  lifting  bristling  peaks 

all  white  with  snow. 
Da)'  by  day  he  keeps  his  vigil  caring  naught  for 

any  man, 
Watching  ever  with  the  patience  that  the  otter- 
hunter  can. 
Oft  his  swarthy  face  grows  eager,  oft  his  rifle  darts 

its  flame 
And  a  dying  creature  struggles  from  that  quick, 

unerring  aim. 
Oft  when  midnight  winds  are  calling  in  his  mind 

sad  thoughts  arise, 
Thoughts    of   her   who    held   him   captive   by  the 

magic  of  her  eyes. 


41 


In  his  dreams  she  stands  before  him  as  she  stood 

in  days  agone 
Ere  his  heart  had  grown  more  hardened  than  the 

rock  he  dwells  upon, 
And  he  hears  her  laughter  ringing  like  the  echoes 

of  a  lute 
Through  the  forest  still  and  sombre,  down  the  vales 

of  Quillayute, 
And    again    he    sits    beside    her    speaking    tender 

words  of  love 
With   the   fragrant   flowers    surrounding   and    the 

waving  green  above. 
But  the  thunder  of  the  breakers  and  the  sea  bird's 

piercing  scream 
From   the   ledges,   brown   and  jagged,    break  the 

vision  of  his  dream. 
Ah!    Nawanda,  false  Nawanda,  with  your  artless 

maiden  grace. 
Think  you  never  of  your  lover  living  in  this  lonely 

place? — 
He  whose  fondest  hope  was  shattered,  now  a  her- 
mit, mute,  alone, 
Far  away  on  bleak  Copalis,  on  a  mountain  built 

of  stone. 


42 


In  January* 


To-day  a  pall  obscures  the  sky, 
And  loudly  beats  the  chilling  rain, 

The  seas  grow  tall,  the  foam  flies  high, 
The  crags  along  the  shore  complain. 

A  wild  gust  bends  the  great  fir  tops, 
The  cedar  moans,  the  hemlock  grieves, 

A  maple  shakes  down  cold,  clear  drops 
And  drowns  the  fire  of  fallen  leaves. 


"3 


The  Wreck  of  the  Ferndale* 


Hoarse  with  calling,  pale  with  anger, 

From  dim  dawn  till  set  of  sun 
Wind-blown  billows  crowding  landward 

Shook  the  shores  of  Washington. 

Stalwart  seas  tramped  down  the  beaches, 
Giant  seas  each  thunder-toned 

Lunged  against  the  rugged  headlands, 
While  the  mighty  caverns  groaned. 

Roared  along  the  sandy  reaches, 

Foaming,  panting  in  the  race, 
Struck  the  cliff's  opposing  ledges, 

Leaped  to  smite  its  massive  face. 

Leaped  and  flung  their  white  arms  wildly, 
Then  all  baffled  backward  fled, 

Moaning,  sobbing  on  the  shingle 
Like  a  mother  o'er  her  dead. 


44 


Night  fell  black  upon  the  waters, 

Night  with  no  star  throbbing  through; 

Fiercer  yet  the  waters  battled, 
Stronger  still  the  cold  wind  blew. 

Every  pine  upon  the  hilltop 
Cried  in  anguish,  cried  in  vain, 

And  the  ranchman's  wife  peered  seaward 
With  her  face  against  the  pane. 

Heard  the  waves'  loud  cannonading, 
Saw  at  times  a  lifting  light — 

Fiery  soul  of  sky-tossed  breaker 
Burning  through  the  raven  night. 

Listened  sadly  at  the  window 

Thinking  of  the  ships  at  sea, 
Of  wrecked  sailors  drifting  helpless, 

And  the  Storm-king's  fiendish  glee. 

Hark!    What  sound  above  the  breakers — 

Was  it  but  the  sudden  shock 
Of  a  seething  sea  bombarding 

Towering  battlements  of  rock? 


Was  it  but  the  crashing  thunder 

Of  a  fir  tree's  rugged  form, 
Of  a  fir  tree  that  had  fallen 

As  it  wrestled  with  the  storm? 

No,  ah,  no!    Again  the  gun  spoke 
And  the  ranchman's  wife  grew  pale; 
"  God  have  mercy  on  a  vessel 

Driven  shoreward  by  the  gale!" 

"  God  above  have  mercy  on  them! 
He  alone  can  still  the  waves!" 
"  Hear  them  calling!"    "  They  will  perish!" 
"  How  the  ocean  roars  and  raves!" 

Thus  spake  trembling,  care-worn  women, 
Sturdy  ranchmen,  young  and  old, 

As  they  gathered  on  the  North  Beach 
In  the  darkness  and  the  cold. 

All  the  night  their  lanterns  glimmered 
In  the  wild  wind's  icy  breath, 

While  the  surf  grew  thick  with  cordage, 
And  the  breakers  talked  of  death. 


46 


All  the  night  they  watched  and  waited 
Where  the  hoary  foam-flakes  flew; 

One  by  one  along  the  North  Beach 
Drifted  in  the  Ferndale's  crew. 

One  by  one  they  drifted  lifeless 

To  the  bleak  Pacific  sands, 
Salt  tears  on  their  pallid  faces, 

Sea-weeds  in  their  hardened  hands. 

Eyes  of  pity  looked  upon  them, 
Looked  upon  them  where  they  lay 

As  the  morn  came  softly  stealing — 
Saddened  morn  in  robe  of  gray. 


47 


Autumn  Song;* 


Flowers  have  flown  from  hill  and  hollow, 
And  the  world  is  saddened  now; 

Chill  winds  lead  and  dead  leaves  follow, 
Empty  nest  and  barren  bough. 

Rusted  grass  the  gusts  entangle, 
Loudly  pipe  the  orchard  trees; 

All  the  day  the  white  gulls  wrangle 
In  the  spray  of  sullen  seas. 

All  the  Say  the  waves  are  breaking 
On  the  shore  with  sob  and  sigh; 

Birds  their  southward  flight  are  taking 
Underneath  a  leaden  sky. 

Gone  the  summer's  golden  weather, 
Gone  the  shaded  woodland  ways; 

Song  and  blossom  die  together, 
In  the  drear  November  days. 


48 


The  Woods  of  the  West. 


Oh,  woods  of  the  west,  leafy  woods  that  I  love, 

Where  through  the  long  days  I  have  heard 
The  prayer  of  the  wind  in  the  branches  above 

And  the  tremulous  song  of  the  bird, 
Where   the    clustering    blooms    of    the    dog-wood 
hang  o'er — 

White  stars  in  the  dusk  of  the  pine, 
And  down  the  dim  aisles  of  the  old  forest  pour 

The  sunbeams  that  melt  into  wine! 

Oh,  woods  of  the  west,  how  oft  to  your  shade 

Have  I  come  in  the  hot  August  hours, 
And  trod  the  green  mantle  lone  Solitude  laid 

Through  the  deeps  of  your  night-haunted  bowers,. 
And  lingering  beside  the  pure,  crystalline  streams — 

Those  poets  that  rhyme  as  they  run, 
And  watched  in  the  shallows  the  silvery  gleams 

Of  the  minnows  in  meshes  of  sun! 

Oh,  woods  of  the  west,  I  am  sighing  to-day 

For  the  sea-songs  your  voices  repeat, 
For  the  evergreen  glades,  for  the  glades  far  away 

From  the  stifling  air  of  the  street, 
And  I  long,  ah,  I  long  to  be  with  you  again 

And  to  dream  in  that  region  of  rest, 
Forever  apart  from  this  warring  of  men — 

Oh,  wonderful  woods  of  the  west! 
49 


The  Dawn  of  Christmas  Day* 


The  winds  are  dead,  and  ah,  how  still! 
The  stars  are  large;  a  silver  blade 
Yon  homeward  sailing  moon  has  made 

Upon  the  somber,  wooded  hill. 

The  towering  fir  trees  breathe  a  prayer, 
And  lo,  each  white  star  hides  away 
Behind  a  fallen  robe  of  gray, 

And  bird  notes  thrill  the  morning  air! 

An  overflowing  cup  of  wine 

Is  slowly  lifting  in  the  east; 

Awake,  oh,  man,  to  Beauty's  feast, 
The  glory  of  the  sky  is  thine! 

And  now  from  peaks  that  flash  and  gleam 
The  golden  light  of  dawn  is  hurled 
Across  the  rugged,  western  world, 

And  drenches  hill  and  vale  and  stream. 


50 


Oh,  hallowed  day  when  Christ  was  born 
Bring  sweetest  peace  to  everyone; 
From  land  of  snow  to  land  of  sun 

Let  love  prevail  on  Christmas  morn! 


51 


Long  Ago* 

Oh,  that  I  again  could  be 
Down  there  by  that  peaceful  sea, 
Down  there  where  I  used  to  go 
In  the  summers  long  ago! 
You  are  gone,  my  boyhood's  mate, 
You  who  met  me  at  the  gate 
Nevermore  will  say,  "  Come,  Joe, 
Follow  me  and  I  will  show 
Sweetest  roses,  fresh  and  gay, 
Purple  pansies,  new-mown  hay, 
Lovely  apples,  blushing  red, 
Big  pears,  larger  than  your  head!" 
Nevermore  will  we  go  through 
Fields  of  clover,  where  the  dew 
Fell  like  tiny  globes  of  light 
From  the  blooms  of  pink  and  white; 


52 


Nevermore  at  golden  noon 

Listen  to  the  robin's  tune 

Thrill  the  very  heart  of  June. 

Ah,  how  happy  were  we  two, 

What  a  merry  maiden  you, 

Romping  under  azure  skies 

With  flushed  cheeks  and  laughing  eyes, 

And  I  thought  your  blowing  hair 

Had,  within  its  silken  snare, 

Caught  the  fringes  of  the  pall 

That  the  night  throws  over  all! 

I  remember  how  you  ran 

With  a  "  beat  me  if  you  can!" 

Out  to  where  the  ebbing  tide 

Left  the  beach  so  cool  and  wide; 

How  we  gathered  brown  seaweeds, 

Pearly  shells  and  floating  reeds, 

And  with  chubby  little  hand 

Wrote  my  name  upon  the  sand; 

How  we  watched  o'er  waters  blue 

Distant  sails  fade  from  our  view 

While  you  cried  in  glee,  "  I  know 

They  are  melting  flakes  of  snow!" 


53 


Then,  when  joyous  day  was  done, 
And  the  slowly  sinking  sun 
Lifted  broad,  bright  bars  of  gold 
From  beneath  the  maples  old, 
And  the  pale  stars  faintly  gleamed- 
Silver  dots  to  us  they  seemed — 
You  would  sometimes  almost  cry 
As  I  said,  "  Well,  Floss,  good-by." 
You  are  dead  and  I  am  gray, 
Coldly  pipes  the  wind  to-day 
As  I  sit  and  wonder  still 
If  the  orchard  on  the  hill 
Looks  the  same,  and  if  the  lawn 
Is  the  one  we  played  upon, 
And  if  on  your  distant  grave 
Flowers  grow  and  grasses  wave, 
And  the  robin  chirps  to  you 
Just  the  way  he  used  to  do. 


64 


Morning* 

Asleep  lie  the  waves  on  the  black,  winding  beaches, 
The  peaks  to  the  west  are  dim  shadows  afar, 

A  gull  drifts  high  over;  the  dreamy  dawn  reaches 
A  wan,  holy  hand  to  the  pale  morning  star. 

The  deep  woodland  thrills  to  the  song  of  the  thrushes; 

Now  comes  the  fair  Morn  with  a  rose  on  her  breast, 
While  the  great  Sea  awakens  and  trembles  and  blushes, 

Then  dons  a  gold  garment  to  welcome  his  guest. 


55 


The  Derelict* 


I  am  rolled  and  swung,  I  am  rocked  and  flung, 
I  am  hammered  and  heaved  and  hurled, 

I  am  tossed  and  wheeled,  I  am  blown  and  reeled, 
And  battered  about  the  world. 

On  the  pushing  tide  I  ride  and  ride, 

Or  loiter  and  loaf  at  ease, 
With  never  a  care,  though  foul  or  fair, 

I  follow  the  foamy  seas. 

Men  come  not  nigh  when  they  pass  me  by, 

For  they  fear  me,  everyone, 
As  I  cleave  the  gray  of  the  dawning  day, 

Or  drowse  in  the  summer  sun. 

Past  unknown  isles,  for  miles  and  miles, 

I  wander  away  to  where 
The  iceberg  lifts  and  the  salt  spray  drifts 

In  the  freezing  arctic  air. 


56 


I  steal  by  the  bars  when  the  flame-winged  stars 
Have  swarmed  in  the  upper  blue, 

And  the  glow  and  shine  of  the  drenching  brine 
Like  white  fire  burns  me  through. 

I  haunt  as  a  ghost  the  rock-girt  coast 
Where  the  bell-buoy  loudly  rings, 

And  the  breakers  leap  to  the  mighty  sweep 
Of  the  night  wind's  sable  wings. 

I  shake  and  moan,  I  creak  and  groan, 

In  the  wrathful  tempest  when 
The  old  Sea  raves  and  digs  deep  graves 

For  the  jolly  sailor  men. 

What  matters  time  or  what  the  clime 

To  a  vagrant  of  the  sea? 
To  live  or  die,  oh,  naught  care  I, 

There  is  no  port  for  me! 


57 


Love  and  L 


She  was  my  own,  was  all  my  own, 
I  loved  her  in  an  unknown  land, 

She  rained  warm  kisses  on  my  brow, 
And  o'er  the  shining,  dimpled  sand 
We  went  together,  hand  in  hand, 

And  watched  the  pale  waves  rise  and  bow. 

All  nature  seemed  to  worship  her; 

The  sea's  great  heart  would  beat  and  beat 

If  she  but  danced  along  the  shore; 
The  strolling  sun  laid  at  her  feet 
His  rich  red  robe,  and  loud  and  sweet 

The  birds  sang  to  her  evermore. 

I  thought  her  love  for  me  was  true, 
She  was  so  good,  she  was  so  fair; 

I  drank  her  beauty  day  by  day; 
A  gleam  of  snow — a  bosom  bare 
Shone  through  her  tangled,  twilight  hair; 

I  loved  her  more  than  I  can  say. 

Alas!  her  brown  eyes  changed  to  green, 
Each  glance  was  like  a  piercing  dart; 

I  silent  stood;  I  could  but  stare, 
While  freezing  fingers  clutched  my  heart; 
She  raised  an  arm,  "  We  now  must  part; 

I'm  Love,"  quoth  she,  "  henceforth  beware!" 

58 


SONNETS. 


One  Autumn  Night, 

Can  I  forget  that  glorious,  autumn  night 
So  full  of  joyous  pain  when  you  and  I 
Stood  on  the  shore  beneath  a  cloudless  sky 

And  watched  the  moon,  all  drenched  with  holy  light* 

Sail  slowly  up  and  toss  a  veil  of  white 
Across  the  heaving  sea? — when  waves  rode  by 
And  pressed  broad  palms  upon  the  rocks,  to  try 

And  bear  away  the  rough  stone  from  our  sight? 

Ah,  no!    'Twas  then  I  spoke  to  you  of  love; 
My  secret  which  you  long  ere  that  had  guessed; 
'Twas  then  I  first  knew  passion's  fiery  heat 

And  kissed  your  cheek,  your  lips,  while  high  above 
A  great  star  shook  and  in  its  burning  breast, 
As  in  my  own,  a  red  heart  beat  and  beat. 


61 


By  the  Pacific* 


From  this  quaint  cabin  window  I  can  see 
The  strange,  vague  line  of  ghostly  driftwood,  though 
No  ray  of  silver  moon  or  soft  star  glow 

Steals  through  the  summer  night's  solemnity. 

Pale  forms  drive  landward  and  wild  figures  flee 
Like  spectres  up  the  shore;  I  hear  the  slow, 
Firm  tread  of  marching  billows  which  I  know 

Will  walk  beside  the  years  that  are  to  be. 

Sweet,  gentle  sleep  is  banished  from  mine  eyes, 
I  lie  and  think  of  wrecks  until  the  sobs 
And  groans  of  drowning  sailors  lost  at  sea 

Come  mingled  with  the  gray  gulls'  plaintive  cries 
And  those  tumultuous,  incessant  throbs — 
The  heavy  heart-beats  of  Eternity. 


62 


A  Picture* 


A  low-roofed  cottage,  and  beyond  a  pine, 
Whose  poet-heart  knows  naught  but  melody; 
A  green  lawn  sloping  to  a  placid  sea 

All  sunset  flushed;  a  brook  that  draws  a  line 

Of  silver  where  gold  poppy  petals  shine 
Amid  pink  clover  blooms;  a  maple  tree — 
A  cloud  of  green  that  hovers  silently 

Above  a  sweet-breathed  honeysuckle  vine 

Along  an  ambling  fence;  a  little  gate, 
And  she  in  maiden  beauty  standing  there, 

The  pure,  young  face  half  ringed  with  raven 
night; 

The  soft,  pink  cheeks  and  burning  lips  that  wait 
My  coming,  and  the  dusky  eyes  turned  where 
A  gray  road  wavers  through  the  waning  light. 


63 


The  Cyclone* 


The  child  of  Horror  and  wild  Wrath  am  I, 
A  creature  that  loves  ruin  and  despair; 
My  loins  are  girt  with  Fury,  and  I  wear 

The  robe  of  Night;  to  seize  fair  homes,  to  try 

My  power  upon  the  haunts  of  men  is  my 
Delight;  the  huge  veins  in  my  black  breast  glare 
With  flame  and  passion  while  I  onward  bear 

An  hundred  souls  across  the  shaking  sky. 

Ah,  when  with  thunder  voice  I  earthward  come 
Pale  women  shrink  and  shudder;  at  the  sight 
Of  my  dark  form  the  bravest  holds  his  breath; 

My  awful  majesty  strikes  all  things  dumb 
As  on  the  rough  round  of  the  world  I  write 
The  terrorizing  signature  of  Death. 


Night  in  Camp* 

Fierce  burns  our  fire  of  driftwood;  overhead 
Gaunt  maples  lift  long  arms  against  the  night; 
The  stars  are  sobbing, — sorrow-shaken,  white, 

And  high  they  hang,  or  show  sad  eyes  grown  red 

With  weeping  for  their  queen, — the  moon,  just  dead. 
Black  shadows  backward  reel  when  tall  and  bright 
The  broad  flames  stand  and  fling  a  golden  light 

On  mats  of  soft  green  moss  around  us  spread. 

A  sudden  breeze  comes  in  from  off  the  sea, 
The  vast,  old  forest  draws  a  troubled  breath, 
A  leaf  awakens;  up  the  shore  of  sand 

The  slow  tide,  silver-lipped,  creeps  noiselessly; 
The  campfire  dies;  then  silence  deep  as  death; 
The  darkness  pushing  down  upon  the  land. 


Morning  in  Camp* 

9 

A  bed  of  ashes  and  a  half-burned  brand 

Now  mark  the  spot  where  last  night's  campfire  sprung 
And  licked  the  dark  with  slender,  scarlet  tongue; 
The  sea  draws  back  from  shores  of  yellow  sand 
Nor  speaks  lest  he  awakes  the  sleeping  land. 
Tall  trees  grow  out  of  shadows;  high  among 
Their  somber  boughs  one  clear,  sweet  song  is  sung, 
In  deep  ravine  by  drooping  cedars  spanned 
All  drowned  in  gloom,  a  flying  pheasant's  whirr 
Rends  morning's  solemn  hush;  gray  rabbits  run 
Across  the  clovered  glade,  while  far  away 
Upon  the  hills  each  huge,  expectant  fir 
Holds  open  arms  in  welcome  to  the  sun — 
Great,  pulsing  heart  of  bold,  advancing  day! 


Alone  Upon  the  Mountain  Side* 


Alone  upon  the  mountain  side — alone 
In  Solitude's  wide  realm,  where  no 
Sound  enters  save  at  intervals  the  low, 
Deep  roar  of  avalanche;  huge  walls  of  stone 
The  mighty  hand  of  God  has  overthrown 
As  He  builds  high  his  pyramid  of  snow — 
His  stairway  to  the  stars;  alone  I  go 
Across  a  white,  white  world  that  ne'er  has  known 
The  taint  of  earth;  and  now  I  see  far  down 
The  dreaming  pines;  I  see  an  eagle  sweep 
Athwart  the  blue;  a  gleaming  river  bind 
In  gorgeous  braid  the  valley's  golden  gown; 
A  cataract  plunge  o'er  the  distant  steep 
And  flutter  like  a  ribbon  in  the  wind. 


67 


Dawn  on  Puget  Sound* 

The  wooded  hill  against  the  sky's  pale  glow 
Looms  huge  and  black;  the  stars  fade  from  my  sight- 
Those  trembling  tear-drops  of  the  mourner  Night; 
The  sea  is  gray;  a  gull  on  wings  of  snow 
Drifts  noiselessly;  all  things  are  hushed  as  though 
In  wonder  at  God's  mystery  of  light; 
Above  the  peaks  the  sky  grows  strangely  white; 
Somewhere  a  bird  from  sudden  overflow 
Of  joy  bursts  into  song — a  strain  so  fine 
Each  leaf  is  tingling  with  the  melody; 
The  east  has  hints  of  gold;  the  night  is  gone; 
The  dimpled  tide  is  flushed  with  dreams  of  wine, 
And,  lo,  in  gorgeous  splendor  smiles  the  sea 
Beneath  the  pink  feet  of  the  new-born  Dawn! 


68 


Noon  on  Paget  Sound* 


The  sea  is  like  a  sapphire  in  the  glare 

Of  noon — the  pulsing,  gleaming  sea  that  lies 
Between  tall  peaks,  beneath  deep  violet  skies; 
The  gulls  in  silver  clouds  drift  down  the  air, 
And  on  my  brow,  pure  as  a  maiden's  prayer, 
The  cool  wind  lingers;  now  a  gray  grouse  tries 
His  muffled  drum  amid  the  firs  that  rise 
Above  the  pebbled  shore,  and  here  and  there 
The  salmon  flash  their  sabers  in  the  sun; 
A  fisher's  dingy  boat  slow  drowses  through 
The  opal  waters,  and  far  off  a  white 
Sail  shimmers  in  the  haze;  clear  streamlets  run 
From  slopes  of  emerald  and  kiss  the  blue 
On  beaches  that  are  dazzling  lanes  of  light. 


Evening  on  Puget  Sound* 


His  crimson  sword  the  dying  sun  lets  fall 
Across  the  sea  and  all  the  water  glows 
With  sudden  splendor — one  great  flaming  rose; 
The  peaks  burst  into  bloom;  each  icy  wall 
Is  bathed  in  fire;  each  fir,  green-robed  and  tall, 
Is  now  a  golden  tower;  a  cool  wind  blows 
From  off  the  chaste  Olympics'  shadowed  snows; 
Far,  far  away  a  loon's  long,  quavering  call 
Sounds  faintly  in  the  restful,  twilight  air; 
The  sweet  dusk  deepens  and  majestic  Night — 
Mother  of  dreams  and  sleep — sinks  silently 
Upon  the  land;  the  tide  steals  in  and  where 
The  ripples  dance  I  watch  the  red  stars  write 
In  fiery  lines  God's  message  to  the  sea. 


70 


The  Pioneer* 


Oh,  staunch  path-finder!     Grizzled  pioneer! 

Your  brown,  thick-furrowed  face  has  known  the  heat 

Of  sun-scorched  plain  and  felt  the  stinging  sleet 
On  mountain  peaks.     Yet  ever  of  good  cheer 
You  toiled,  though  lean,  pale  Hunger  came  so  near 

You  heard  the  tread  of  his  approaching  feet; 

Dark-browed  Despair  you  sometimes  downward  beat 
And  stood  above  the  prostrate  form  of  Fear. 
I  count  you  as  a  soldier  brave  and  true; 

A  hero  loved  of  heroes,  whose  strong  hand 
Upheld  the  flag  of  Progress  to  the  skies; 
Who  suffered  patiently  and  never  knew 

Defeat,  and  who  within  a  wild,  weird  land 
Did  strike  the  blow  that  bade  a  new  world  rise. 


71 


To  the  Sea* 

I  ne'er  can  say,  oh,  ancient,  wrinkled  Sea! 

In  what  one  mood  of  yours  I  love  you  most — 
Gray  pilgrim  slowly  plodding  down  the  coast; 

At  times,  I  think  you  are  most  dear  to  me 

When  you  have  wedded  Calm,  or  when,  maybe, 
Like  some  grim  conqueror  of  old  you  boast 
In  kingly  pride  your  mighty,  maddened  host 

That  jars  the  world  with  its  white  cavalry. 

Again,  I  stand  enraptured  when  in  nights 

Of  storm  you  are  awakened  from  your  dreams 
And  let  each  foaming,  untamed  charger  free, 

When  fire  of  crashing  cannon  weirdly  lights 

Earth's  rock-built  battlements — oh,  then  it  seems 
That  you  are  even  more  than  Majesty! 


72 


/ 


If  She  Should  Die* 


If  she  should  die — the  thought  of  utter  gloom 
And  untold  grief  through  all  my  years  is  this. 
I  shudder,  God!    What  loneliness  to  miss 

Her  loving  presence  from  our  cosy  room 

And  know  within  a  damp  and  darkened  tomb 
There  lies  the  heart  I  draw  in  rapturous  bliss 
Against  my  own;  the  tender  cheek  I  kiss 

Whereon  a  crimson  flower  is  now  in  bloom. 

Each  bird  would  follow  in  her  spirit's  flight, 
At  break  of  dawn  the  rose  shed  tears  of  woe 
Its  trembling  lips  held  upward  to  the  sky, 

A  star  in  heaven  shine  with  such  a  light 
'Twould  be  a  marvel  to  the  world  below, — 
If  she  should  die — if  my  loved  one  should  die. 


73 


Cuba,  J897* 

9 

O  God,  that  I  might  breathe  of  Freedom's  airl 
Alone  I  weep  to-day — alone,  forlorn — 
Twin  sister  of  pale  Sorrow,  wan  and  worn; 

Low,  low  I  kneel  with  dark,  disheveled  hair; 

My  noblest,  bravest  sons  lie  starving  where 
Grim  Morro  looms  on  high;  my  flesh  is  torn 
And  bleeding  from  the  tyrant's  lash;  I  mourn 

My  children  slain;  I  cry  in  my  despair 

For  some  protecting  arm,  some  flashing  sword 
Upraised  in  my  defense;  I  cry,  and  yet 
All  lands  stand  dumb  and  will  not  answer  me; 

How  long  ere  my  deep  prayer  be  heard,  O  Lord? 
How  long  ere  my  bruised  feet  be  firmly  set 
Upon  the  radiant  peak  of  Liberty? 


74 


Since  She  is  Gone* 

Since  she  is  gone  the  moments  pass  me  by 
So  slow — so  slow  it  often  seems  to  me 
Gray  Time  has  grown  so  very  old  that  he 

Moves  like  a  palsied  man  about  to  die. 

Through  all  the  black  hours  of  the  night  I  lie 
With  empty  arms  and  hearken  to  the  sea 
Along  the  barren  shore  moan  wearily, 

And  hear  the  homeless  wind  make  sad  reply. 

Once  more  upon  my  brow  I  long  to  feel 
The  fire  of  her  red  lips  that  thrilled  me  through; 
To  see  her  warm,  white  bosom  fall  and  rise 

And  all  the  passion  of  her  soul  reveal, 
And  look,  O  God,  and  look  again  into 

The  deep  blue  heaven  of  her  lustrous  eyes! 


75 


The  Silent  Woods* 


The  lone  abode  of  Twilight  and  Repose 
Is  this  deep  forest  of  my  western  land; 
In  the  eternal  hush  the  slim  ferns  stand; 

Above,  the  cedar  and  the  hemlock  doze 

In  velvet  robes  of  green  the  dank  moss  throws 
From  massive  bough  to  bough;  on  either  hand 
Time's  drapery  shrouds  all  and  weirdly  grand 

Are  these  dim  aisles  the  sunshine  never  knows. 

The  frail,  white  lilies  glimmer  in  the  gloom 
Like  feeble  stars  within  the  thicket's  night, 
Or  slender  tapers  which  the  wood-nymphs  keep 

Faint-burning  in  each  close,  dusk-haunted  room 
That  their  wan  glow,  perchance,  may  serve  to  light 
The  feet  of  Silence  through  the  halls  of  Sleep. 


76 


The  Fall  of  the  Fir* 


A  sudden  shudder  of  each  limb;  a  cry 
Of  agony,  and  downward  to  his  fate 
The  giant  rushes  with  the  hiss  of  Hate; 
A  lone,  white  star  is  shaken  from  the  high 
Dark  boughs  that  sweep  across  the  twilight  sky; 
With  bated  breath  the  stalwart  woodsmen  wait; 
And  now  a  mighty  roar  as  when  a  great, 
Foam-crested  sea,  heart-broken,  comes  to  die 
Upon  the  crags,  or  when  the  Storm-king  swings 
His  lash  of  flame;  an  avalanche  of  sound 
That  stirs  the  ancient  solitude  until 
The  whole  earth  trembles  and  mute  Silence  flings 
Her  shattered  form  upon  the  shaking  ground, 
And  frighted  Echo  flees  from  hill  to  hill. 


The  Fishermen:  Puget  Sound* 

To-day  my  inland,  fir-enshadowed  sea 
In  such  untroubled  slumber  lies  below 
The  fire-filled  dome  of  azure  that  her  slow, 

Soft  breathing  scarce  breaks  the  tranquillity 

Of  her  broad,  burnished  breast.  There  conies  to  me 
From  where  the  beach  gleams  like  a  drift  of  snow 
High  flung  against  a  wall  of  green,  the  low 

Caressing  tongue  of  far-off  Italy, 

And  through  dark  boughs  I  see  strong  fishermen, 
Black-browed  and  swarthy,  toiling  with  all  might 
At  dripping  net;  I  see  the  flash  of  oar, 

That  silvered  mass  imprisoned  there, 

And  then  a  sudden  flood  of  vivid,  burning  light 
Poured  out  upon  the  slanting,  sandy  shore. 


June* 

The  peerless  skies  of  June  bend  over  me, 
And, ah, what  happiness  the  queen  month  brings! 
The  balmy  air  is  full  of  whirring  wings; 

The  clover  blooms  are  white  on  hill  and  lea, 

And  to  the  nodding  rose  the  bumble-bee 
Repeats  his  confidential  mumblings, 
While  in  the  dusky  dell  the  wood-thrush  sings 

A  song  so  sweet  'twould  gladden  Ecstasy; 

And,  oh,  the  joy  I  feel  to  lie,  care-free, 

Beneath  broad  maples  that  the  robins  love, 
Within  the  sound  of  rhyming,  silver  streams, 

And  watch  the  butterfly  lilt  drowsily 

From  flower  to  flower,  and  faintly  hear,  above, 
The  lisp  of  leaves  like  echoes  heard  in  dreams! 


79 


Haunted* 


Along  its  edge  stand  tall,  rust-colored  weeds 
Through  which  green  snakes  and  slimy  lizards  glide; 
Amid  the  tufts  of  grass  black  beetles  hide, 

And  frogs  blow  bugles  in  the  rustling  reeds. 

From  tangled  sedge  the  timid  wild  fowl  leads 
Her  little  brood,  and  quietly  they  ride 
Among  the  murky  pools,  while  down  beside 

A  rotting  log  the  watchful  heron  feeds. 

When  flying  clouds  obscure  a  bent,  old  moon 

Strange   sounds   are   heard — a  low,    distressing  cry; 
A  sob;  a  moan;  the  rushes  shake  with  fright; 

A  sudden  deathly  silence  falls,  and  soon 
A  ghostly  maiden  figure  hurries  by, 
Whose  wild  eyes  glow  with  weird,  unearthly  light. 


80 


On  the  Marsh* 


Beneath  a  dark  and  brooding  winter's  sky 
The  somber,  melancholy  marsh  to-day 
Lies  desolate,  wind-ridden,  drear  and  gray; 

Amid  the  rusty  reeds  the  sea-birds  cry; 

The  tawny,  swirling  river  loiters  by 

Dwarf  willows  and  in  silence  winds  away 
Across  bleak  levels  to  the  foamy  bay; 

Above,  with  whistling  wings  the  swift  teal  fly 

To  murky  pools  among  the  woven  grass; 

The  geese  call  from  the  clouds;  a  veil  of  rain 
Now  dims  the  distance,  and  the  chill  gusts  make 

Shrill  pipings  in  the  rushes  as  they  pass, 
And  moan  along  the  waste  as  if  in  pain, 
Or  hiss  through  tangled  tules  like  a  snake. 


81 


QUATRAINS. 


Mount  Rainier . 

Long  hours  we  toiled  up  through  the  solemn  wood 
Beneath  moss-banners  stretched  from  tree  to  tree; 

At  last  upon  a  barren  hill  we  stood 
And,  lo,  above  loomed  Majesty! 


85 


Custer* 

a 

When  dashing,  gallant  Custer  fell  he  gave 
The  world  a  shining  name  Time  cannot  dim; 

He  was  a  soldier  so  intensely  brave 
That  even  Courage  paled  to  follow  him. 


86 


Moonrise* 

A  beaming,  patient,  peaceful  face 
The  moon  now  lifts  above  the  sea; 

Across  the  waves  with  maiden  grace 
Her  white,  jeweled  arm  falls  languidly. 


87 


A  Sea  Picture* 

A  level  sand  beach  stretching  far  away, 
And  flecked  with  shells  like  fallen  flakes  of  snow, 

And  in  the  distance,  near  the  dying  day, 
Two  figures  etched  against  the  afterglow. 


S8 


Creeds* 

These  paths  are  narrow  and  on  either  side 

Loom   Superstition's   ancient  peaks — forsooth 

So  high  their  summits  they  forever  hide 
From  groping  travelers  the  light  of  Truth! 


The  West  Shore* 


Green  leagues  of  wood  and  red  rose  bowers 
With  yellow  sunshine  sifting  through; 

Tall  billows  flinging  white  foam-flowers 
To  kingly  peaks  in  skies  of  blue. 


90 


The  Pacific. 


High  in  the  bending  blue  the  round  sun  burns, 
And  with  enraptured  eyes  we  westward  look 

To  where  old  Ocean  ever  turns  and  turns 
The  great,  white  leaves  of  his  most  wondrous  book. 


91 


Butterflies* 

m 

Fast  dancing  flames  on  twig  and  bough, 
Bright  flakes  of  sunshine  drifting  through 

The  heavy  woodland  shadows;  now 
Wee,  wavering  stars  against  the  blue. 


The  Thrush* 


Within  the  thicket's  deepest  night 
He  trills  so  sweetly  unto  me 

The  crystal  rain  of  his  delight 
Would  captivate  fair  Melody. 


Along  Shore* 

m 

What  wondrous  sermons  these  seas  preach  to  men! 

What  lofty  pinnacles  they  seek  to  climb! 
How  old  and  bent  they  are,  yet  strong  as  when 

They  rocked  the  infant  Time! 


94 


A  "Western  Forest* 

m 

Dark  boughs  weighed  down  with  silence;  in  a  dim, 
Cool  nook  a  gray  doe  and  her  spotted  fawn; 

Above,  upon  a  fir  tree's  massive  limb, 
A  crouching  cougar  with  keen  daggers  drawn. 


95 


At  a  Child's  Grave* 


It  is  not  dew  that  gleams  so  bright 

On  these  frail  flowers  'neath  which  she  sleeps, 
But  tears  shed  by  the  mourner  Night, 

Who  ever  lingers  here  and  weeps. 


The  Birth  of  the  Red  Rose* 
9 

In  the  dawn  of  the  world,  in  God's  first  morning  sun 
Two  white-petaled  roses  bloomed  out  in  the  South, 

And  her  hot,  crimson  lips  Passion  pressed  upon  one 
And  its  heart  turned  to  flame  at  the  fire  of  her  mouth. 


97 


In  the  Garden* 

The  fragrant,  red  roses  bend  quivering  stems, 

The  firefly  strikes  flame  on  the  tall  lily's  tongue, 

The  sweet  clover  blossoms  wear  glittering  gems — 
Rare  jewels  in  the  veil  that  the  white  moon  has  flung. 


October* 

October  is  a  maiden  fair 

With  dreamy  eyes  and  drooping  head, 
And  through  her  wealth  of  misty  hair 

Her  cheeks  are  always  blushing  red. 


99 


Sunset* 


Like  some  huge  bird  that  sinks  to  rest 
The  sun  goes  down — a  weary  thing — 

And  o'er  the  water's  placid  breast 
It  lays  a  scarlet,  outstretched  wing. 


100 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS   BOOK   ON    THE   DATE   DUE.    THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY    AND    TO    $1.00    ON    THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

.          • 

kUR    7    1941 

PUv           f             CfT  1 

_YB   12270 


fcosd^A 


